


The Séance

by bloodrunsred



Series: R&M Two-Shots [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anorexia, Assumptions, Autistic Morty Smith, BAMF Morty Smith, Body Image, Dead People, Everyone is Dead, Gen, Ghosts, Grandpa Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Hurt Rick, Inspired by The Umbrella Academy, Magic, Medium Morty Smith, Murder, Not Really Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rick Being an Asshole, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Spirits, Talking To Dead People, seance, specifically klaus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Morty has been able to see dead people for as long as he can remember.And ghosts follow Rick wherever he goes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: séance is a french word that means 'session'.. it's used to talk about sessions of something, like movies or whatever, but in english it's used to refer to meetings with mediums to contact spirits!!

The first dead person Morty can remember seeing is his Grandma Sanchez. 

She died when he was seven. She had been battling cancer for three years, and gave in late at night; Morty, with the rest of his family, had been there with her. When they finally got home from the hospital, it was in the early hours of the morning, and Grandma Sanchez was waiting for Morty by his bed.

Of course, Morty put up a fuss. He kicked, and screamed, and refused to even go near his bed—and she just sat there staring at him, her skin dull and her eyes swallowed by her pupils, just like in the hospital when she had been on what seemed like hundreds of pills. His parents had been righfully concerned, especially when they were forced to let him sleep in their bed with them. Even his mom, with her endless dislike for therapy and psychology, had jumped to book him a session.

He saw the people surrounding his doctor as well, and had asked why her mom was so sad, and why her head was bleeding so much. He'd been given medication. The doctor's hands had been shaking as she filled out his prescription, her glances to him scared and disgusted. 

The ghosts never liked his medicine. He saw more of them while he was on it; the neighbour's dead cat, who hissed at him and tried to claw his face off, the old man who hovered around one of the veterans who lived on the street, who yelled at him, half his face missing and blood staining Morty's skin when he leaned over him. 

So he stopped taking it, and learned how to lie.

_No, I haven't seen anything gory on T.V lately._

_Yes, I have been taking my pills._

_No, nothing in my life has been upsetting me._

_Yes, the dead people have gone away._

He had been forced to admit a whole lot of things he didn't believe while in therapy. He choked out that he didn't believe the ghosts were real, that they were just figments of his imagination, and he went home and complained.

After every session, he complained and complained, about how he was feeling better and didn't need the medicine anymore, mom! About how the doctor made him uncomfortable, and how she always made him feel crazy. That had been the turning point for his mom--she didn't want a crazy son, she wanted one that had coped with his grief in an unconventional way, and was now over it.

He stopped going, and the ghosts quietened, like they were pleased no-one was trying to make them go away anymore.

Grandma Sanchez still sits in his room.

She hasn't aged a day since he first saw her there, even though he's fourteen now; she rarely talks to him, except for when Rick's in the room with him. Her reaction varies—sometimes she shouts and screams that he betrayed her, and sometimes she cries that he never helped her. Either way, she's never happy, and Morty is always a little more subdued when Rick needs his help.

When Rick first came to the house, Morty had been overwhelmed. His mom had chalked it up to his autism, talking in soft voices to him while explaining the situation to Rick. Rick had smiled rougishly, the corpses behind his wailing and warning Morty to stay away lest he join them. The ghosts around Rick were never quiet like Grandma was with him. He never got a break during the night, Rick's room always just a few doors down. 

So he mentioned it to Rick; talking about how overwhelmed he got sometimes, from normal things of course. Their neighbour, Dan, and his penchant for waking up early to mow the lawn, for example.

He got special, noise-cancelling headphones, and Dan joined Rick's collective.

Dan was actually the first ghost that ever got mad at him.

He's still mad at him now. Most of the ghosts Morty has met have a purpose. They're not quite dead, not quite alive, and floating through Earth on their quests for vengeance, love, closure. Murdered people, or people taken before their time, are the ones Morty has known his whole life. It's not pleasant—their bodies are destroyed by whatever unnatural means took their life; they're loud and they demand to be heard by people who don't know how to listen quite like Morty does.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

He brought his alarm clock into the bathroom with him, so he doesn't lose track of time and can get out before the rest of his family comes home.

There's so much blood on his hands. He's in the bath now, soaking his hands in the soapy water and sobbing just loud enough to be heard over the whispers and yelling of the corpses surrounding him. There's hardly any room to breathe, his own demons and memories coming back to haunt him. As much as he wants to deny it, these aren't Rick's victims.

They're his. 

The little Friboluan girl, that died when he accidentally passed his cold onto her, is a sickly green. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot, her hair falling from her pig-tails. Her bottom lip is trembling, the bottom of her face splattered with coughed-up blood, her stuffed bear hanging limp by her side.

"Why'd you do it?" She asks, her eyes big as she leans over the rim of the bathtub to look him in the face. "Why'd you kill me, Morty?"

"I didn't mean to!" Morty shakes his head, his eyes squeezing shut so he doesn't have to look at her. He's free to talk back to them; the family is out, and he managed to convince his mom that taking Rick was a good idea (it wasn't). "Please, you know I didn't..."

"You meant to kill me though, right?" One of the villagers from the purge-planet is crouching beside him, his eyes dark and glazed over. His face is burned off, his eyeball hanging by a few tendons, "You liked it. You liked blowing my face off."

Their voices are flat and expressionless, but their words are just as cutting as they would have been if he were being yelled at. The others are angry he isn't listening to them, and are louder, other languages mixing in with English, people crying large tears from dead eyes. Morty doesn't know what to say—it's true, isn't it? Morty has hurt people, and his rage issues have gotten the better of him a lot, but he's always tried to avoid killing people.

Rick doesn't get it. He enjoys violence, enjoys the pain and chaos that death brings, and he encourages Morty to like it as well. He doesn't know what it's like to be trapped here, though, because there's nowhere he can go that they can't follow.

"I'm sorry," he says, not even trying to defend himself. He buries his face in his hands, the blood drenching them mingling with his tears, and it's no less than he deserves. He is sorry, he didn't mean to kill him—Morty still doesn't know what came over him, because he's always known the consequences, and he never wanted to be like Rick. "Go away, please, please, please..."

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

He pushes himself underwater.

The voices are still there, but are muffled and cloudy. It's easy to pretend that they are something separate, something  _other_ with the water between them. It's easy to imagine something else, too; Morty wouldn't say he was suicidal, but he knows from personal experience that it's hard to hear anything over the sound of water in your lungs. He waits for as long as he can, and relishes in the burn that reminds him he's not one of them.

He's not dead.

(Not yet.)

He resurfaces to the beeping of his alarm, and a banging at the door.

"M-morty!" Rick calls out—and, of course Rick is back early, Morty's an idiot for thinking he would wait in a car for twenty minutes. "Shut your alarm up! What--what kind of idiot needs an alarm to take a bath? Sick my ass, y-you're fine, aren't you?"

And with Rick...

Grandma Sanchez turns toward the door, her hand hovering against the wall with the illusion of weakness that doesn't extend past her appearance. Morty is tempted to sink back under the water, but the continuous beeping is made even worse by the tiled walls and floor, and the racket as Rick's ghosts join his own. Other people in his family don't have nearly as many ghosts; his mom has a few animals, and one person named Tommy. Summer has a few more—she's just like Rick, Morty thinks, and suits the adventures much better than him.

His dad is the only one who doesn't have any. No, that's a lie; he has a few. Jerry Smith is an idiot. He has deers, and one teenager named John. Morty looked John up, and found out that he had died of an overdose when his dad was in high-school. They never found out who sold him the drugs, or who was in the house when he took them, and when Morty finally figured out what that meant, he had never been able to look at Jerry the same way again.

Morty unplugs the alarm. 

That evokes a sarcastic 'finally!' from Rick, who hits the door once more for good measure, before Morty hears him stumbling off to find someone else to torment. Grandma Sanchez looked back once, and followed him through the closed door at Morty's nod. 

At least he won't have to listen to her whispering to Rick, and see her being made angrier and angrier by Rick's ignorance. The ghosts don't know things the way Morty does. They don't know that people can't hear them, and they probably haven't fully realised that they're not alive anymore. They're shells, and Morty avoids looking in the mirror as he towels off. When he was little he used to get embarrassed, and he still does sometimes, but you don't live your entire life surrounded by other people without losing some amount of modesty.

_You're not dead,_ he reminds himself, even though his eyes look too similar compared to those around him. 

Mr Jellybean's hands flutter around his shoulders, his fixed smile barely visible with his skin sagging down on his face, the goop dripping from his insides hitting the floor with a  _drip, drip, drip_ that makes him flinch. His insides had been exploded and liquified, and his body is forced to droop to compensate for the weight of his innards and their fight with gravity.

"You're dead," Morty whispers so Rick won't hear him, his tone so spiteful it makes even him cringe. "You're fucking dead."

Mr Jellybean doesn't say anything, and his eyes don't stray from the mirror. His hands find their place on Morty's shoulders, pushing hard enough that he's passing through the skin and muscle, all the way until he's freezing Morty's blood from inside his body. The jellybean is muttering under his breath, his voice growing steadily louder as he looms in closer. "Fucking tease, fucking tease, fucking tease..."

His face never changes and Morty feels frozen in more ways than one.

"Knock it off," Morty ducks around him, almost forgetting that he could have gone through him.  _They're not real._ "Go—go find Rick."

Morty sometimes forgets that Rick has killed for him before. It's borderline humiliating, that Rick knows—or at the very least have some idea—of what Mr Jellybean did to him.

Mr Jellybean doesn't leave, and hovers around Morty as he pushes his legs through his jeans, and pulls his shirt over his head. Morty wishes, not for the first time, that he had more control over the spirits, but they're here for their own purposes, and remain selfish until their purpose is fulfilled; or until the sun burns out. The dead almost never want to remain dead, and they'll use whatever excuse they can use so they don't have to leave.

Morty drains the tub, and watches the flecks of red swirl down down the drain. His arms itch, and he looks down, frowning as the blood continues to well up. When had those cuts happened?

So that hadn't been the others' blood, then. Morty's actions are mechanical and practiced as he wraps gauze around his wounds. He sees the razor, bloody and shining on the bathroom counter, and vaguely remembers bringing it in with him. His memories are foggy and faded, echoing with the screams and shouts of people no-one but him can see, burning with guilt and resentment inside his head.   

He won't lie, the pain is grounding.

He wraps his towel around his shoulders, letting it drape over his arms until he can get to his room. Rick's sitting on the floor outside his own room, his eyes strangely unfocused, flask in hand. The rest of the family isn't home yet, and Rick's spirits are wandering around the house. "M-morttt..." Rick slurs, falling over slightly, until he's half lying on the floor. "It's—it's too cold, M-morttt..."

Morty isn't surprised that he's cold; he's fallen into Grandma, where she's sitting next to him. Her focus is on the wall, her face blank as she talks to Rick. Morty turns away from the couple, and runs into Maximus.

"I didn't want to call him in," Maximus says, eyes boring into Morty. His face is ripped to shreds, and he’s holding his torso to keep it from falling off his legs. "He killed us all, Morty. He killed us all."

He falls, and he’s crawling towards Morty, using only his elbows and forearms to drag his bloody mess of a chest forward. His legs are left behind, and Morty stumbles away.

Morty wants to scream that it's not his fault, that he knows damn well what Rick has and hasn't done, but he's too used to this game. He thinks back to the pills and medicine, and the night he had woken up covered in blood only he could see. He remembers bleeding too, when he had scratched at his arms, trying to get people to see what he could so that they would help him for once.

He turns away instead. He has a jacket in his room, one that he's never seen other Morties wear; he's been wearing jackets since he was little, mostly because his mom was upset at people staring at his arms when they went out together.

"Mortttt," Rick says, "I'm so fuckin—I'm so fucking drunk, man."

Morty doesn't dignify that with a response.

 

* * *

 

Later, Morty has his jacket on. He's afraid to put his headphones on or close his eyes, though, in case one of the spirits do something that will get him in trouble.

"You can sleep, you know," Mortimer, the old Morty of this dimension, says. "It's not like we can do anything."

Morty scoffs, swinging his legs from his bed to the floor, forcing himself to sit upright. "You're not the one who's woken up with—with blood on your face and ghosts on your bed," he reminds him. "And—and Mr Jellybean is here."

Mortimer's half-smile drops completely. "I hadn't seen him."

The ghosts are barely aware of each other, all too focused on their own missions and goals. Mortimer is different; he doesn't have a goal, or mission, or anything like that. He just follows his wandering Rick, guiding him around so he doesn't bump into furniture, and soothing him when he gets too loud or violent. He's here because of Rick, just like how Rick normally gets them into trouble. Morty appreciates the help with the volume, because it’s hard to deal with it by himself. 

Dead Rick—Richard—is one of the ghosts that Morty hates most. Like the others, he looks solid and real, his skin blackened with soot, his bones broken and one eye swaying in front of his face with every limped step. 

The others aren’t like him, which is good for all parties, but Richard and Mortimer...

They’re his and Rick’s past and present.

"You're being more obvious recently," Mortimer says. "Your Rick is getting suspicious. He thinks you're on drugs, so I'd sleep with one eye open anyway, in case he tries to sneak some blood to test. You should just tell him-"

"Dying made you even stupider," Morty says, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "Rick's a scientist. I know what I'm doing, I've been doing this since I was a kid. You haven't. I'm not going to-"

There's a knock on Morty's door that cuts him off before he can say,  _'become one of Rick's victims'_ but Mortimer understands him all the same. Mortimer is different to him in that aspect as well. He's a lot more passive, a lot more trusting of Rick. Morty wants to shake him sometimes, remind him who exactly got him killed, but he can't bring himself to ruin the one, almost positive relationship he has with his curse.

"Morty, sweetie," his mom says. "Are you still feeling sick? Do you want to come down for dinner?"

Morty is still feeling sick. His eyes are heavy from lack of sleep, and he has a constant headache that pounds on, until he has to throw-up what little he manages to eat while surrounded by horrifying sights. This isn't a gift, and he wants to slap people that wish they could still talk to their dead friends, or relatives, because he can see them gathered around the people saying that, and they're not great conversationalists.

He needs to go down, though. Rick's probably already sobered up, what with his tolerance, and thinks he's lying about being sick. Staying up here would probably only piss him off more, and a restless Rick is reckless. A restless Rick kills people.

"I'm coming," he says, making to stand up. Mortimer follows, adjusting his dirty t-shirt so it covers where his ribs are visible. Mom is waiting for him when he opens the door, her eyes resting on his jacket for just a little too long. It's a sudden change for her, since her son never had a jacket, and he only hopes that she won't complain to Rick about it when she gets drunk in the evening, because Rick will make him stop wearing it. 

Mortimer stares at his mom (because she's his mom, not Morty's), and Morty knows the tells of poorly concealed sadness. He feels guilty, again; Mortimer is nice about it, but he was never put to rest. He was stuffed away, hidden from everyone, and no-one ever had time to mourn him. Even Summer never cared when he told her about what happened, and Mortimer had heard and seen all of it. 

"I'm sorry." Mortimer says, when he notices Morty looking. Morty nods out of habit, and flinches when his mom catches the motion, watching him with sharp eyes. "I know it upsets you..."

"No," Morty whispers, like it'll stop mom from hearing him. "It's fine."

Mom pulls him close, kissing his forehead, and says in a low murmur. "Honey, if you need any medicine, I know your Grandpa would be more than happy to make you some. Are you sure you're okay?"

Rick? Being happy to do anything but get high or drunk? Morty would laugh if the house weren't so depressing, and if his mom didn't have her mouth tight with worry. He shrugs her off, smiling weakly at her, even if the only thing he can focus on is Mortimer with his dull skin and clothes. "I'm fine," he hesitates. "Mom."

She smiles again, the lines of doubt in her forehead never disappearing, but lessening slightly when Rick calls out: "You guys comin'?" 

She drags him with her, her grip on his arm sending shockwaves through his body that make him feel better, unconventional as it is. He sees the men that are missing heads and walking around, and finds another difference. He can feel. He has emotions other than anger or regret, even though he doesn't feel them as often as he might like. He's better than them, more evolved; he doesn't need to wallow like they do.

He just does it anyway.

Well, at least he has that choice. 

"Fucking hell!" Rick says, acting like he's been waiting even though half his dinnner is already gone. "What were both—Morty, why did you make your mother come up and get you?"

Morty opens his mouth to make a scathing remark, maybe make a personal dig or two at Rick’s alcoholism, but he’s cut short at Rick’s new companions, who are standing right behind him.

“What did you get up to while you were out, Rick?” There’s no stutter, no mistakes, nothing but stiffness and the unmistakeable tension surrounding Morty (and Mortimer).

Rick, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat.

”Oh, you know. The usual.”

The people behind him open their mouths, ready to scream, and shout, and beg for their lives back, and Morty is not far behind them. 

Maybe Rick does know, Morty thinks as he presses the heel of his hand into his ear, pretending to be resting his head. Maybe Rick just wants to see him in pain, or suffering. 

Rick’s eyes flicker to him as he bites down on his tongue, almost at the edge of his rope just with these new additions. They’ll scream and cry, and learn that Morty is the only one who listens. Morty is the only one who can get their revenge. 

Morty doesn’t want to kill Rick, he just wants quiet. He just wants the world to be quiet.

It’s just death! It’s just murder! It’s just endless noise that will drown Morty as he falls asleep at night! There’s no consequence for Rick, as usual; there’s no suffering after the fact, there’s no headaches or pains, or fear.

Rick is death, and Morty is just the medium.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back by popular demand!

God knows that Morty is tired.

Rick won't let up, now that he thinks he's faking being ill, and their adventures are taking a toll. People are dying, planets are dying, and Morty is drowning in more than bathwater. He's losing hours, his days blurring together in a world of shapes and colours that make him dizzy whenever he tries to look back. He hasn't slept in days, and he's beginning to resemble the corpses that trail after him, day after day.

He hates the way he looks.

His ribs are sharp and protruding, his hipbones visible and knobby in a way that comes from not being able to stomach solid foods, and too much exercise. His hair is an unkempt mess, curls sticking every which way because of nervous ticks that have his fingers tugging at strands. And his eyes...

He looks in the mirror, and he can't see anything behind them. The eyes are the window to the soul, and Morty's are dull and lifeless. There's nothing there but the same blankness he sees even in Mortimer, or any of the other ghosts. The same emptiness that he sees in Rick sometimes, the kind that makes him wonder if the old man is even alive at all. Some days, like today, it's harder to tell if he's any different.

He's better, he reminds himself. He can't be the same, and the bar is so low that he can't possibly be worse.

Rick might be worse; he's the one collecting their souls, after all, forcing them to follow him until his dying breath. And when he dies... Rick always has unfinished business, and Morty loathes the day that he might join the flock. Morty would very much like to consider himself a Shepard, or a sheep-dog, but he's undeniably one of the sheep. A black sheep, maybe, but a sheep all the same. He'll join them too, mindless and trying to get attention until the Earth collapses in on itself.

"Morty," Rick bangs on the bathroom door, sharp and irritated; he had been cheated out of his winnings the other day, and he's been planning the perfect revenge since then. Morty pities the poor soul that had crossed Rick, that dared try and be smarter than the greatest man in the universe. "Adventure!"

Purple bruises stain the skin beneath Morty's eyes, making him look like an underfed raccoon. His lips are chapped, and his jaw is trembling when he manages to wheeze out a faint, "Okay." Rick's probably not there anymore anyway, and Morty tries to blink back the tears that threaten his vision, his lower lip wobbling as he tries to think positive. Mortimer is standing behind him in the mirror, his skin still stained that dull grey, and Morty fails.

The house is teeming with spirits, and Morty feels like he's one of them.

His family barely notices him, they never see him. They treat him the same way they treat their ghosts, which shouldn't be possible because Morty's  _alive._ He's sure of it, he's positive, because Rick wouldn't be able to see him if he were dead. There's that awful thought that festers and rots in his brain, the one that asks after the possibility of Rick being like him. Rick being the one who can see Morty, and not Morty who can see the ghosts.

It's not like the dead have enough of their minds to understand death in its entirety. Not the way Morty does.

Someone's going to die and, like the coward he is, Morty is going to let it happen.

He deserves their anger.

Rick deserves their anger. They're going to kill a planet, a solar-system, a galaxy, and there will be trickles of people that flood Morty's world, drowning out the living people. There will always be blood squelching beneath his shoes, organs and brains spattered on whatever road he takes, and he will always hate the fact that he can't stop Rick. No matter what he tries, the excuses he makes, Rick will always get his way.

If he knew, he wouldn't even care.

If anything, he'd try and kill more people, just as an experiment. He would reach into Morty's brain and rip him apart, one cut at a time, until he had an answer or Morty was dead. That's why he can't tell, that's why he can't ask for one little thing that will make sleeping easier, or a little bit of a break from his life. He has to lie, and cheat, and steal his way into getting any amount of freedom, all the time. There's never an easy way out.

"Morty," Mortimer says, and Morty looks down at his arm. It's bleeding again, and he doesn't know from what. He dabs at the blood with toilet-paper, before flushing it down the toilet and pulling on his jacket. "Listen to me, Morty, this isn't healthy-"

It's should be almost a habit at this point to ignore Mortimer when he talks, but it takes every ounce of energy to stay facing away from him. 

Turning the doorknob is hard, especially when he knows what is on the other side, waiting for him. Beyond the spirits, and ashes, and blood, Rick is waiting for him. And that's almost scarier than any dead being Morty will be forced to face. Rick can actually touch him, and Rick can actually hurt him. In more ways than mental, or emotional; Rick controls Morty, holding almost the same illusions as the ghosts:

That Morty listening will make his life better.

It doesn't make it worse, he knows that much. He knows Rick only keeps him around for his brainwaves, and the added benefit of having someone dumber than a bag of rocks tag along to be impressed by anything and everything. Rick can talk, and Morty will listen. It's never to accomplish anything, it's never to help Morty. It's selfish, and it makes Rick no better than the people he's killed.

God, Morty would pay to see the look on Rick's face if he ever found out that he wasn't worshipped like he thought he was. If Rick hates anything, it's being compared to things; there's a short list of what's allowed--God or the Devil, being key examples--and a longer list of what's not.

"Morty!" Rick bangs on the door again, sounding more like a petulant teenager in this moment than Morty ever has in his life. "I don't--I don't want to see your tiny dingaling, so hurry u- _urrp_ -p before I portal in there and d-drag your scrawny ass out!"

Morty splashes water at his face in response, studying himself intently in the mirror for any flaws Rick will try and insult him over. He sees too many to count, but the main one is still the emptiness behind his eyes. A typical Rick-like response might be something along the lines of  _'I knew you were dumb, but the look on your face really takes the cake,'_ or  _'I can see the Jerry in you, Morty, and it's not a good look.'_

It doesn't matter. Nothing does.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  _One, two, three, four... hold and release. Repeat._

His breath gets caught in his throat when he opens his eyes, and Mr Jellybean is standing behind him again. Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Morty almost breaks apart. As it is, he just throws the bathroom door open, almost hitting Rick in the face as he does so. He can feel the nervous energy collecting around him, crackling in the air like electricity, and his fingers snag on his jacket sleeves, looking for something to pull apart. Rick just scowls at him, brow raised like he wants Morty to apologise.

Morty makes the realisation far too late, eyes widening, and Rick's face screws up in a way that's almost eerie in this situation. He's been presented with a problem, and he's going to throw himself at it until it cracks under the pressure of his brain and authority. Morty isn't looking forward to seeing how he fares against Rick and his attention, and he hears a  _drip, drip, drip_ that doesn't come from the bathroom. He allows his face to fall into a blank expression that he knows wouldn't be out of place on Rick's own face, and holds out his hand.

Well, his wrist. His fingers are pointed downward, and the splotchy bruises that encircle his wrist like a chunky bracelet from the last time he was manhandled are made evident. Rick stares at him, and then it. For a second, Morty almost thinks he's not going to take a painful hold but, like with most things, he's proven wrong.

Rick's grip hurts, and Morty deserves it. He has to deserve it because, without the pain, there's nothing to distract him from Mortimer calling his name, and there's nothing tying him down to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Rick doesn't pull him through a portal.

No, he drags him to the garage, and all but throws him into the ship. Mortimer trails along behind him, the lonely shadow of a boy who is too used to following Rick wherever he goes. It makes something grow thick and heavy in Morty's stomach, a ball of tangled worries and frustrations. He wants to shake Mortimer, grab him by the shoulders and remind him that his Rick isn't in front of him, but he can't. 

Not with Rick there.

Images of Rick laughing, grinning, smiling over experiments with test-subjects more humane than Morty might have liked, make his blood run cold and his lips press tightly together.

Telling Rick is definitely out of the question so, instead, he bites at his lip, and pulls at the skin around his fingernails. He can feel Mortimer settling beside him, an uncomfortable and unnatural feeling that makes him want to shy away. He's used to it, however, and is politer than he might normally seem. He stays put. 

His knees press together, and he feels ash trickle onto his shoulder. It's blue, fine and sparkly. It reminds him of the planet that Rick  ~~and Morty~~ had blown up, all blue and shiny. He tries not to think about it, and it doesn't really work. He still tries anyway because, damn, it has to help Rick in some way if none of this bothers him. The engine starts, the slow sputters of an old piece if machinery, and something in Morty rears back. He wants to stay on the ground, and lie in his bedroom until everything grows too much to handle. He wants to stay away from the rest of the universe, the chaotic place where he loses any semblance of what it means to be okay.

He just squeezes his fists tightly until his nail-bitten fingers are digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He doesn't just say no to Rick.

Instead, he says this: 

"Rick, I--I don't know about this, man, haven't we been having too many adventures recently? Like, m-maybe we should just do something relaxing, you know?" He might be laying it on too thick, but the sickness that started in his stomach is spreading through his entire body at the thought of more death. More blood on his hands. And, he thinks, as something wet drips onto his ear, blood anywhere near him. "Could we just go home, Rick? Y-you know that M-mom-" and she's not Morty's mom, she's Mortimer's, why does he keep forgetting, "-thinks we're overdoing it."

Rick barks out a laugh, one that hangs in the air for moments after he closes his mouth. "Still feeling some of that fake-sick thing you had going on, Morty?" He jeers, looking back. His face is drawn up tight in a cruel smile, one that pulls roughly at Morty's heartstrings in all the wrong ways. He hates that Rick always makes him feel like this; stupid, stupid,  _stupid._ The urge to confess rises in his throat like bile, and he chokes it back down again.

"N-no! I just think-"

"Oh, you're thinking now? Geez, if I had known--if I had thought that were possible, I would have brought your dad along too. Maybe he'll learn something from you!"

Mortimer tenses, and Morty follows his example. "Morty, don't listen to him, he's just trying to bait you-"

Rick continues, spittle flying from his mouth, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. He jerks them to the side, and Morty is thrown against the glass.  _He had forgotten his seat-belt._ "You know what, M-mort?" Rick asks, and Morty resists the urge to let his eyes fall shut, and his mouth open to accommodate the scream that wants to pierce the air. "I think you've been becoming a pussy. What, no adventures f-for a while, and you think you're top shit?"

"Morty, don't listen to him," Mortimer says. "Just-"

"-and another thing," Rick says like he can't even hear Mortimer and Morty forgets that he genuinely can't for a split-second. "Your mom has been riding my ass about you, and--and how fucking shitty you've been acting! M-man up, Morty, or I'm going to make you do more adventures until you finally learn-"

"Morty, don't!"

Morty screams. It's shrill and agonised, his hands scratching at his ears as he tries to get them to shut up for once and leave him alone. He just wants five fucking seconds where he's not being attacked for living, or breathing, or talking, and he doesn't think he's ever going to actually get it. Is he really going to live for the rest of his life without any peace and quiet?

The scream trails off into a sob, one that irritates his inflamed throat even more. Mortimer reaches forward to lay a hand on Morty's shoulder, but he actually flinches away this time. "Don't touch me," he hisses. Though it should sound strong and threatening, a voice-crack strikes him in the middle of his sentence, making him sound more broken than commanding. Mortimer still frowns at his sentence, the harsh line of his grey forehead softening ever-so slightly. 

"M-morty..." Rick stares at him, open-mouthed and eyes vacant as he gazes at where Mortimer is. He shakes himself visibly, fixing his stare on Morty instead. "I'm here, idiot. Not--not over there."

It's an easy out. 

It's an easy way to escape the questions, the experiments, the inevitable death that follows Rick wherever he is, but Morty is tired. The knot in his stomach untangles at the thought of someone finally knowing, and he barely gives himself any time to talk himself out of it. Tilting his chin up, and letting his eyes flick to Mortimer for just a second, he responds.

"I know," he says, and the tears that have been building up for hours trickle over onto his cheeks. "I'm--I'm talking to Mortimer."

Rick laughs, and it's still grating as ever. It's the one he makes when he's confused, or mocking, whichever strikes him first. "W-wow, talking to yourself, Morty? That's a low I never--that's a low I didn't think you'd reach until thirty. Going all schizo on me, hey?"

Whispers flow through Morty's brain, and he finds himself finally speaking for the spirits. After all these years, he finds his mouth moving for words that aren't his, forming tales that don't belong to him. 

"Briklen Jorrunn," he locks eyes with Rick. "I had a family. You shot me in the head because I beat you at one game of poker. Two nights ago. You killed me, and my body is rotting in a dumpster. You let my family think that I had run away, and left, when it was really just you-"

"Funny joke-"

"Kiiu Uhrn," he raises his voice ever so slightly, letting something other than him take over for once. "I was the Princess of Jutffr, until you started a war between us and our moon. You are the reason I was executed in my own home, for crimes you let people think I committed. You convinced me it was for the  _best,_ that it would help my people gather resources, and you let me die for your disgusting,  _plebnarrt, sjuritt-"_

"You weren't even there, Morty," Rick has a fake smile frozen on his face, one that wavers ever-so slightly as he talks. "You don't know what I did or didn't do."

"King Jellybean," Morty feels his face warp into a twisted smile that doesn't quite belong to him. "You shot me. For such a silly reason too, for touching this little, insignificant thing. All children are, right? A man like you must know what I mean, but you still killed me. What, did you get jealous? He was just too sweet to resist, a little tease that left me  _aching..."_

Rick blanches. Morty can feel himself recoiling a little as well but, really, he's too dead to care.  _Dead, that's what he is, right? He's dead and Rick's dead and everyone is always dead. It doesn't matter because he's dead._

"Sofia Hernandez," Morty says, and lets the rest of the world slip away. "I was seven years old..."

 

* * *

 

 

When Morty wakes up, he's in bed.

Rick's sitting by his bedside, his elbows resting on his knees, and his arms hanging limply between his legs. Morty doesn't make a move, and is as quiet as a mouse in hopes that he'll leave soon so he can pull out his headphones and try and relax.

"You can see the people I kill," Rick says, his tone dull and flat. "You can see the people you've--that I've made you kill."

Morty hesitates, stiffening even further, before nodding. And that's the difference between them, isn't it? Because Morty knows what death is. He probably knows better than anyone in the world, and he's still afraid. Not because he doesn't know what's going to happen, but because he does and it's horrifying. It's a fate worse than living, that he'll lose what little sense of self he possesses, the one thing he sets him apart from them.

Rick knows life better than anyone. He gets what he wants, and takes what he wants, and the universe makes room for him. He decides what he does, and he lives despite the people that would rather see him dead. 

Intelligence and ignorance. Rick has probably never realised that they both have those qualities, in different amounts.

As it is, he stretches out on Morty's bed, sighing a deep breath from his gut. Slowly, like he fears he'll be kicked away, he wraps and arm around Morty's chest and buries his face into his neck. He whispers something, and it might be an apology. It might be a demand. Morty doesn't know, but he does know that he will never tell Rick what happens in any amount of detail.

There's just one reason why.

Rick might know how to travel through time, or access different dimensions. He might know how to sell Kings dust, or know how to run circles around anyone who would see him locked away. Rick might know almost everything but, at the end of the day, Morty knows  _death._ And that's the one thing that matters. For all Rick lives, he will die, and he will die without that knowledge.

He tries to pretend that that makes him better than Rick, but all he can think of is how  _lucky_ his grandfather is. How lucky he always seems to be, no matter how bad he is, or what he does.  _"Good and bad are terms that have no bearing on reality,"_ Rick had explained to him once.  _"They're just for people who want to pretend to be better or worse than people. There's no benefit or disadvantage to either."_

Rick is cursed with knowledge that lets him lead the life he wants, and blessed with ignorance where it really matters. 

Morty closes his eyes against the tears, and tries to let Rick's hug distract him from the souls chattering all around them. It doesn't really work, but it's more than he would have expected otherwise.

"Kill him," some of the spirits say, and he can feel their eyes boring into him. "While you can."

Morty just hugs Rick tighter, and lets him stay ignorant. For once. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> though i had a rather simple goal in mind for this chapter, it was extremely difficult to write. all i knew is that i wanted Rick to find out. i had a crappy day, so please leave a nice comment or kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> Find my tumblr [here!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/xbloodrunsredx)
> 
>  
> 
> So, I'm part-way through writing the next installment of 'just a little bit broken', and I'm about to begin writing chapter two for 'word of mouth'!
> 
> review my loves, feel free to share, discuss, call me out on mistakes, whatever!


End file.
